


Someone to Trust

by FourthFloorWrites



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Decepticon!Jazz, Espionage, M/M, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28480476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourthFloorWrites/pseuds/FourthFloorWrites
Summary: Prowl chases Jazz through Petrex. They share the same goal, and therein lies the problem.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 22
Kudos: 71
Collections: Secret Solenoid '20-'21





	Someone to Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jabberish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jabberish/gifts).



> Happy holidays, jab! I fully confess to the word count getting out of control, but I was having fun and didn't want to slow down ^^' Loved your prompts so I combined a couple of them! Also my first time writing jazzprowl, can definitely see myself doing more of this ship in the future.

Prowl was driving blind. Citation. He was also speeding without emergency sirens. Another citation. Pursuing a fleeing suspect without call for backup.  _ Citation _ . Each infraction lined up in a queue, data sorting itself for quick upload to the reporting station back at a headquarters he no longer had access to, and eventually he gave up dismissing them to focus on driving. One of these days, he would remember to uninstall these last remnants of his enforcer protocols.

Unfortunately, right now, it was taking most of his processing power to track the way Jazz was dipping in and out of traffic, nudging himself into spaces that should have been just shy his size. Prowl followed as close as he could, signalling before abrupt lane changes, though he still ended up with plenty of time to react when Jazz peeled aside, diving down an alley where once had stood a small bank of questionable reputation. Prowl’s GPS bellowed at him as he blasted through what it assumed to be several exterior walls before it gave up, shutting down from the humility of knowing it was being ignored.

Between the high-walled corridors of buildings, the alley cut across several thoroughfares; Prowl had already broken through before he registered where Jazz had taken them, and then he was swerving out of the way of traffic, swinging to the left to save himself from getting clipped by an irate cement mixer. A gap in traffic opened the way to the next segment of the alley and he dove in, following the blue taillights that were 5% smaller in his visual feed than they had been on the last straightaway.

They crossed two more busy streets, the distance between them growing. Prowl lost visual after the second, screeching to a stop only after flying past Jazz’s turn. Rather than waste seconds reversing, he transformed (citation) and spun around, landing on the side street back in vehicle mode. Taunting revs encouraged him on, Jazz patronizingly visible once more. Prowl gunned it all the same, never one to reject an advantage.

His pursuit brought him through a tunnel, across an uncontrolled intersection, and swerving around the next corner…

And almost into a dead-end wall.

Prowl’s brakes made an almighty squeal as he forced himself to a stop, just enough to save him from smashing his bumper against the rear-facing wall of a commercial property. He transformed, glancing around and taking image captures of the area, picking out a few identifying marks (the dumpster with an orange rhomboid stencil sprayed on, the chipping finish of the central door in a pattern vaguely reminiscent of Wheeljack’s face) and noting his coordinates in the global tracking system, which nonetheless asserted that he was now standing in the middle of an open pedestrian square.

The dead-end was less an alleyway itself than an incidental space that had formed between the three buildings erected around it, the gaps between them designed for small-framed maintenance workers rather than the larger laborer classes who frequented this part of the city. The only other access to the main street would have been through the buildings themselves, though the doors to two out of three were plated over, accompanied by warnings regarding trespassing on foreclosed property. The third also appeared plated, except that it took just a nudge to push the façade away and reveal the door behind.

Prowl ran his scans. Nothing out of the ordinary so far. He tested the handle and, feeling nothing give on the other side, eased it open.

The interior was a gloom of shadow and dust, the gutted-out business leaving no more than a few out-of-place walls and a forgotten tin of empty bobbins. The large front windows that once would have displayed its contents had been shuttered for so long rust had started to creep from the hinges to the slats, and it was only the open door and the window above it that lent light to the hollowed-out husk.

“Cybertron to Prowl,” Jazz said as he rolled into view from behind a support beam. “Get in here. And flip the bolt behind you. Squatters don’t normally come this way, but 4 th precinct’s been cracking down on loitering and it’s making ‘em desperate.”

Prowl did as he was told, replacing the panel outside before shutting the door, the entire time with his back to Jazz in a minor display of trust. His sensor panels were still active, monitoring the air flow and sounds of the room, but it took a nanoklik longer to parse that data than his visual centers, which they both knew was all the time Jazz needed to gain an edge. He did not take advantage of it, though, which Prowl was glad for, and not just for his continued survival.

With the outside world shut out, Prowl pinged him the handshake codes, a separate set from what he had used to announce his arrival in Petrex. Jazz sent his response as his frame relaxed, weapons systems whining into standby; he grinned.

“Frag, mech, it’s been a while. How you been? How’s Iacon?” He produced a small knife that he spun between his fingers, like the toys that littered his desk back at base. “Is Ratch still—no, actually, save the gossip. How  _ are  _ you?”

“I’m fine,” Prowl said. Standing with his arms at his sides and sensor panels erect was more of a challenge than usual; such was the effect Jazz had on people. “There has been an incident. Several field agents are being pulled, you among them.” Not a lie: Mirage and Beachcomber’s extractions were taking place at that moment.

Jazz whistled and held the knife up, illuminating it with the glow of his visor.

“Must be bad, if  _ you’re _ here to get me ‘stead of Bee.”

“Temporary reassignment,” Prowl said. Bumblebee had argued that he should be the one to carry out this mission, that his rapport with Jazz would be necessary to get through its most challenging phase. He had spoken persuasively, but in the end it was Prowl’s pursuit training that had made the decision.

“He’s busy?” Jazz asked.

“Of course.”

“Good for him. Kid’s going places, can’t be stuck with me forever.” He tossed the knife up, spinning it twice through the air before catching it by the hilt. “So, standard extraction procedures? Two cycles to wrap things up?”

Prowl’s sensors were failing to pick up whatever else Jazz was carrying on his person, so his optics focused on the knife, the way Jazz seemed to manipulate it without a touch.

“We’re working on an abbreviated timeline,” he said. “One cycle, the shorter the better. I have contacts in Petrex we can call if you need additional resources. Your goal should be no story: ideal outcome is we have you back before anyone realizes you’ve left.” It would be a helmache later if this went sideways, but it was a worthwhile price to pay to build the story that this was a temporary transfer.

With a final flick, the knife vanished, and Jazz pushed off from the support beam, strolling forward. Prowl held his position.

“This thing’s got you spooked,” Jazz said, stopping just short the length of a sensor panel. It was hard to tell whether it was an intentional distance: he had gotten accidentally whacked enough times to learn that Prowl, for reasons beyond personal comfort, needed space.

“It’s a serious matter,” Prowl said. “Your orders, though, come from command.” Not Prowl, though he could not say he would have done much different had he been in Red Alert’s place.

“Optimus?” Jazz asked before, catching Prowl’s frown, he waved it off, backing away. “Never mind, classified, I gotcha. He alright? Asked about me?”

“He’s fine,” Prowl said. At that moment, Optimus was stationed at Tyger Pax, leading the defense against the latest Decepticon assault, doing everything he excelled at: finding miraculous solutions, encouraging soldiers halfway to despair, and fighting Decepticons. Just before he had cut off communications, Prowl had caught the first lines of that morning’s rallying speech, and it spoke to Optimus’ strength as an orator that even headed out on this mission, Prowl had felt himself moved.

“He respects the confidentiality of your assignments,” he went on. “He trusts he will be updated if any significant developments take place.” Trust that Prowl was currently breaking, but this was a fragile situation, one that could not be salvaged with sparkfelt words. Optimus’ strengths were many, but his was not the most delicate touch, and he had long ago agreed there were times Special Operations needed to function outside his periphery.

“So, the big boss didn’t send you and doesn’t know you’re here,” Jazz said. He caught the support beam again and spun around it, just skimming the floor with the tips of his pedes. “It  _ is _ bad.”

“I need a breakdown of what you will require for a clean extraction,” Prowl said. “I’ve formatted a joor-by-joor schedule based on your reports, but I need you to—”

“Is he alright?” Jazz repeated. Still holding the beam, the grin he flashed lacked the charm Prowl knew him to be capable of. “C’mon, don’t give me that look. Prime’s a friend and it’s been a while.”

“You will be fully brief on the situation once we reach Iacon.”

“You’re kinda freaking me out, mech.”

Prowl doubted that, knowing the sorts of missions Jazz regularly volunteered and was recommended for, but maybe it was different imagining someone else potentially in trouble. He weighed the risk of divulging Optimus’ status to the reward of presenting Jazz a further act of trust.

“He’s well,” Prowl said. “Overworked, as we all art, but in good spirits. Optimistic.”

Jazz laughed and released his grip, spinning two steps to regain his balance.

“What’s that mean in Prowl speak? Short-sighted?”

“Your plan, Jazz,” Prowl reminded him.

“My plan. Right. Yeah.”

And then he was behind Prowl.

Prowl whipped around, searching for Jazz’s hands. They were empty, but he kept moving, arrhythmic and unpredictable, difficult to track even with Prowl’s tactical computer.

“Gonna go drop by the chip store, first, let old Brickabrac know I’m gonna have to hold off on my last order. Maybe grab a crossword for the road. Then, swing by a couple pals and make sure they’ll be fine while I’m gone. Want to meet up at the station?”

Prowl got a lock on Jazz’s pattern and sidestepped him, just managing to wedge himself into the space between Jazz and the door. He twisted his right leg and pulled his doorwings down, securing his position.

Jazz froze, pulling his hand back from where it had started to reach for the handle.

“So, that’s how it is,” he said, stepping back so the space opened up between them again. “Maybe now try telling me what’s really going on, Prowl?”

Prowl held steady. Their biolights reflected off each other, Prowl’s liquid gleam in stark contrast to Jazz’s carefully crafted dinge. Everything about Jazz was a decision: the way he stood, the spaces he moved into. He drew back, tensing his servos in preparation, and Prowl knew he could either stand by as Jazz took matters into his own hands or try one last time to gain control over the situation.

He decided.

“There was an attack,” he said. “A supply party running from Protihex to Tyger Pax was ambushed: six Autobots captured and the route compromised.” At that moment, Bumblebee and a handful of other minibots were driving through the neutral dead zone between the cities, scouting a new supply route, while Optimus headed off the attack on Tyger Pax that had sprung in the wake of the ambush. Mirage and Hound, when they returned, would be leading the operation to rescue the captured ‘Bots.

And Prowl was here. Jazz no longer looked prepared to spring, but his expression was empty of the teasing warmth he had greeted Prowl with. He nodded for Prowl to continue.

“The circumstances behind the attack are being investigated,” Prowl said.

Jazz sucked in a vent and he smiled again, his expression all eyes and teeth.

“Here to put me on the case?” he asked.

“You will be fully briefed when we reach Iacon,” Prowl repeated. Another point Bumblebee had argued for: he could lie.

Jazz tilted his head as he stepped back.

“Right,” he said. Then he leapt.

Prowl had been anticipating an attack, so he wasted a nanoklik preparing to defend while Jazz was already propelling himself up the wall. In the time it took Prowl to spin around, Jazz had forced the window open, and he had only just started to open his mouth when Jazz tossed him a two-fingered salute.

“Sounds good, Commander! I’ll get my things squared away here and meet up with you when I’m done. You can see yourself out, right? Great! Catch ya on the flipside!”

And then he slipped through, like electricity along a wire. Prowl wasted another moment unlocking the door, and by the time he got outside the alley was empty, not even a shadow against the sky to tell him which way Jazz had fled. Beyond the copse of buildings the sound of Petrex droned on, an orderly racket so unlike the world he was trying to keep at bay.

  
  


Jazz knew this city. He had memorized the skyline and charted the sewers, mapped every pothole like they were pieces in a Hex game. Command had wanted an extra optic in one of the last Autobot cities off the front lines, and Jazz had done his part, inserting himself into every seam and rusted hinge he could find. To get from one point to another, he could have three routes mapped in under a klik, ETA and obstacle risks included.

That did not stop him from nearly tripping over himself as he pelted across the rooftops, trying to filter through the crash of data on his HUD while maneuvering over alleyways and skidding across fire escapes. Style and grace were  _ out _ ; keeping himself from plummeting to unfortunate, debilitating injury was  _ in _ .

He reached Con185, the semi-official border between midtown and the lower levels. Petrex was built in a series of concentric circles cut with radial alleys that increased in frequency only slightly as one ventured out from the center, city hall. The ‘centrics could be small residential streets or raised highways, like 185, from which Jazz took a shortcut to the ground via lamppost. The six-lane ongoing was raised, putting it at optic-level with some sorry folks’ apartments, with tunnels underneath to allow daily traffic between the neighborhoods.

Jazz stole into one designated for nonessential pedestrian access and used the temporary shelter to disable the last of his broadcast array. Just before reaching the exit, he slowed to an easy walk and flipped on his internal speakers, bobbing along to one of the old Tarpaulin classics as he emerged back into the light of the city.

He marked his entrance with an exaggerated look to the left and the right, the standard lower levels intro to check no one had clocked his shortcut. He had made it mid-shift, when traffic was at its lowest, so surveillance was mostly remote. The camera on the corner of Con186 and 305.4R should have been monitoring this area, but it had been busted since before Jazz’s arrival and in the repair queue was somewhere below the fritzing turbines the next block over.

Jazz strolled through his neighborhood, adding a bounce to his step as the song started to pick up. He skipped past buildings just this side of standing and the usual remnants of busy lives. Some neighbors waved and he shot them his greetings—Crash, sitting on his stoop while the sun further faded his old racer’s paint, and Platen, who had been staying in Galeforce’s apartment ever since rolling in from Rodion—and stopped to give Winch a hand after he dropped several of the tools he carried with him to his job at the munitions plant.

“Thanks, Ricochet,” Winch said as he straightened up again. “Come by later? Hosting a couple rounds of Scrap ‘Em.”

“Aw, sorry, mech,” Jazz said as he stepped back. “Already got plans. Hold my seat for Rotary and Roundabout, maybe.”

Winch agreed he would talk to the twins as he walked off. Jazz continued down the street, stopping to chat with folks where he could. So many factory workers already out for the day meant he could not get in all the goodbyes he wanted, which was a shame. It turned out there were good folks in this part of the world.

No time for disappointment, though. He put a couple blocks between himself and familiar faces before he stole onto a side street and looped back around to Crash’s building. The decline was more prominent back here, where a storm years ago had worn holes in the outer paneling and the windows were more tarp than glass. Though not the first time he had come this way during the day, he did practice standard caution for once, running a legitimate surroundings check and timing the traffic on 305.6R to determine his window. Scaling the back wall and latching onto the fire escape was rote, at least, giving Jazz a bit of processor space to work on his emigration plan.

Okay, that was going to take more than a little CPU. He popped open a window and dropped inside.

He felt the prickly wash of EM fields as he waded into his next of computers and terminals, turning off his music so he could sink into the familiar buzz of constantly active electronics. The smell of something overheating hung in the air, and he took a moment to shove some trash away from the in-house generator, even knowing it would soon be pointless.

He went through all his checks: crystals on the windowsill in place, door stuffed with soundproofing, and tampering programs showing no flags. The floor panel in front of the central terminal, the one he had not mentioned in any reports, was still pried up a few millimeters, slipping soundlessly back into place as he stepped up to the console.

He put in his credentials and his hub opened up, surveillance feeds from around Petrex and beyond piling in their findings. Comm logs, usage reports, internal memos: stellar-cycles’ worth of analysis work at his disposal, enough information to run the world if one knew what to do with it.

Nothing for it, though. He pulled up every file he had on the recent attack, from the grapevined emergency deployment orders that had alerted him, to the preceding cycles’ surveillance footage he had managed to scour in the aftermath. Maybe it was all junk, maybe this much digging would be his undoing, but there was no time now to sort through and figure it out. He packaged whatever seemed worthwhile and jacked into the terminal to download it, using the extra time to chip away at his next moves.

Had to get out of the apartment; that was a given. Had to stay ahead of Prowl. He had an advantage on the open road up until Prowl called in assistance from his old precinct, and then he was just a robo-minnow in the solvent stream. He could try to catch a flier on their way out, but he ran into the same problem if Prowl got the city to activate its air shield; no one invested in keeping their plating was getting through that. After those little snags, at least the rest was easy: make for neutral territory, get back into Staniz if they would take him. The Autobots would assume he had hopped ship, giving him a couple cycles at least to get this mess sorted out.

First, though. He finished downloading the files, unplugged, and spooled his cable. Then, with a few memorized, unrehearsed button taps, he input the failsafe code. For one sparkstopping moment, the computer froze, before it came back with a single line of text: “Failsafe initiated.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Jazz said with a grin as he stepped back. The smell grew more pungent, buzzing morphing into a stinging whine. Of all the holes command had shoved him in, he would miss this one a little more than most. The glitchmice were a problem and he would have to relearn how to recharge on a real berth if he ever made it back to Iacon, but it was about the character of the place. Up in the middle of the night, sorting data while grooving along to his tunes, he had been right where he thought he should be.

A curl of smoke rose from the bed of cables.

  
  


“ _Blast_ _heard in 3_ _rd_ _sector, reports of smoke issuing from rear of building on 305.4R. Coordinates incoming. Request for backup from Enforcer—_ ”

His radio transceiver stayed on, but Prowl stopped listening to it as he stowed his lockpicking tools and spun around, tires spinning when they hit the ground. He had been going down the list of Jazz’s known boltholes and stashes, which meant he recognized the street immediately. Combined with the fact that the nearest enforcer hub was in midtown, up to half a joor away depending on personnel, he might have enough time to get in without interruption, though he would need to make every klik count. Now would be the worst time for Petrex to learn of the Autobot spy that had been combing their city.

He transformed in front of the building from which a cloud of smoke rose like a flagpole and used his momentum to shove through the crowd who had gathered in the street.

“Emergency services!” he barked, squeezing past the bot who had been standing, stricken, in the front door. “Make way!”

He made it up the stairs but was stopped outside Jazz’s door, met with a cluster of neighbors who grew stiff and cast glances to each other as he approached. One was working on the door, a tool in his hand that disappeared when another tapped his elbow, and it was only Prowl’s reminder that more enforcers were on the way that convinced them to disperse. Prowl waited until they were all out of view before he stepped back, braced himself, and rammed the door with his shoulder.

Even with Jazz’s upgrades, the building’s general state of disrepair meant it only took two attempts to shatter the doorframe and force his way inside. The smell of burnt circuitry hit him first, so powerful that he initially recoiled and had to force himself not to flee the apartment.

The appearance of the studio was only marginally better than its smell. Through the smoke, Prowl could just make out the whirlwind of charred, shattered electronics, outrageously expensive equipment reduced to slag and dust. There was barely time to take it in, though, as movement at the window caught his attention and he spotted Jazz hanging halfway out. His visor met Prowl’s optics and brightened, his lips parting only for him to tumble out before any words could form.

With a surge of alarm, Prowl bolted forward, shuffling the wreckage of the apartment to the back of his priority queue. One of Prime’s people could handle the diplomatic cleanup. His only concern was preventing a suspect from escaping, though some of his urgency rushed out of him when he leaned out the open window to find himself looking down at Jazz, his highly trained, deadly agent, sprawled out on the fire escape.

“Prowl?” Jazz said, raising a hand over his visor. “Wha—hey!”

Prowl went for his hands, snapping the stasis cuffs around one wrist while he used his lower body to pin Jazz in place. Grabbing the other was a great deal more challenging as Jazz figured out what was going on and started to thrash, and it was only by catching Jazz’s hand as it went for Prowl’s optics that was successfully able to lock on the other half of the cuffs. It was likely he was only successful because Jazz was still dazed; the tac comp generated 14 simulations in which Jazz could have broken free, even with the stipulation that Prowl sustained only minor damage.

He did not believe Jazz wanted to kill him. Had that been the case, he would not have made it out of their meeting.

Jazz continued to buck and kick, but his movements were blunted by the cuffs, slow and sloppy strikes that, even when they met their targets, did little more than ring against Prowl’s plating. His visor was flashing rapidly, and his fans were going full bore, despite having already filtered out most of the smoke.

He was panicking.  _ Jazz _ was panicking.

“Jazz—Jazz, calm down,” Prowl said, which was as effective as yelling at a caged cyber-cougar. Jazz struggled harder, rocking side to side now with the apparent intent to roll himself and Prowl off their platform. Prowl grappled him back into place.

“Yeah, no, I’m—thanks for the save.” Jazz started to go for his hands, scrabbling to try to pry them off. “I’m good now! All good, so if you’ll let me go I can—”

“Petrex enforcers are en route,” Prowl said. “We need to leave before they arrive.  _ Jazz _ .”

“Yeah, sounds like we’re on the  _ same page _ , Prowl, what do you think I’m  _ trying _ to do?”

Prowl heard sirens in the distance and his tac comp helpfully informed him he was out of time. He had wanted to avoid this maneuver for the strain it put on his backstrut, but parts were easier to fix than public relations. Bending low, he rolled Jazz up and across his shoulders, using his sensor panels to stabilize and hold Jazz in place. Then he rose again, his legs shaking slightly under their combined weight, and took measured steps toward the end of the fire escape.

“Wait!” Jazz said, kicking with just enough force to make Prowl stumble. “Wait, wait, wait, you know what? I changed my mind. I wanna cooperate. Let’s—”

Prowl did not jump so much as he stepped off the end of the landing, plummeting a distance that felt longer than it had looked into the unfortunate dumpster below. At least his calculations had been correct that it would absorb the impact. In fact, it did its job almost too well, collapsing entirely under Prowl’s weight and causing him to lose his grip on Jazz, who flew out into the alley. Prowl needed a moment to recalibrate his gyros before he could sit up, shaking out the twinge of pain in his panels.

Jazz, wobbly though he was from the stasis cuffs, stood nevertheless upright, backing away with his visor locked onto Prowl.

“Jazz—”

“No. I know what it looks like, Prowl, I do. I swear on my name,” the tac comp flagged Jazz’s choice of words, “if I could do this any other way, I would. But I didn’t do what you think I did, and I can’t prove it the way you want me to.”

The wail of sirens was coming from the other side of the building now. Prowl pushed himself out of the wreckage of the dumpster and followed Jazz as he started to back away from the scene. He would not risk rushing Jazz and panicking him again, but maintaining their distance provided the best chance he would have to talk to his old friend.

“I don’t think you did it,” Prowl said. “I  _ know _ information was leaked to the Decepticons, and I  _ know _ initial investigations yielded your name. Given those facts and your claims on the record, the logical course of action will be for you to accompany me peacefully back to Iacon.”

Raised voices inside the building, not all of which Prowl recognized. Jazz broke his stare for a nanoklik, glancing to something behind Prowl’s back.

“Bunch of nice words,” Jazz said. “Pit of a lot better than what the old system would’ve churned out. But you think it’s really that simple? You think Counterintell is gonna hold due process for a former ‘Con?”

The space between them widened by a single step.

“What—”

There was a click and the stasis cuffs fell from Jazz’s wrists. In an instant, he was up on the ledge of a nearby building, using it as a springboard to launch himself to the roof.

“Jazz!” Prowl tried to give chase, following Jazz’s path from one level below, but his training had been in horizontal pursuit; Jazz added a dimension that changed the rules of the game.

“Sorry, Prowl, but I signed on to do the right thing, and justice ain’t always about that.”

Before he could disappear entirely, Jazz stopped and turned to look down on Prowl.

“I can’t go back to Iacon,” he said. “I’ve got things to do, which means I don’t have time to be sitting in a cell while folks debate the most ethical way to crack open my processor. I—” He stopped, though, and shook his head, and before Prowl could think of a single word to reassure him, he was gone.

  
  


Reviewing data on the move was never the most efficient way to do either of those things, but every moment Jazz spent with unknowns sitting in his databanks was a moment as good as wasted. It was that same logic that had him digging through his contacts: Ferrit (working), Ferrotype (getting over a case of sensor burn), Ferrule… well, now there was a friendly bot, always good for a quick chat. Jazz swung around a pole and hopped back a few blocks in the other direction.

He stopped on a familiar rooftop and went for the access hatch. Normally, he would have jacked in and input the security code for courtesy’s sake, but for once he gave into his impatience and hacked his way in, tossing the door open before the bolts had settled. He landed in a dimly lit hallway, glancing up just in time to see a lithe bot with only his right arm putting away a pistol.

“Hi, Ricochet,” Ferrule greeted in his usual monotone.

“Ferrule, my mech,” Jazz said with an effortless grin as he straightened. “What’s good?”

Ferrule just nodded in answer, his own way of saying, “Same old.”

“How’s your fuel level?” he asked.

“Just fine,” Jazz said. “If you’ve got more of those little goodies, though, the crunchy ones…”

Ferrule tilted his head, the closest the ex-enforcer ever came to a smile, and led the way down the hall to a well-lit front room. Jazz had never asked where he got the credits to afford his own unit, and Ferrule had never said, the same way he never talked about his time on the force. That suited Jazz fine: the here and now were much more relevant to his interests, and Ferrule’s stretches of perceived unemployment left ample time for him to practice his refinery skills.

They installed themselves at Ferrule’s mismatched pair of chairs, Jazz gravitating as always to the spinner. The goodies were in a bowl on the small table between them; Jazz helped himself as he kicked back, one leg dangling over the arm of the chair.

“Primus, mech. I’d ask you for a recipe if I had any chance of following it.”

“It’s not so hard,” Ferrule said, which meant this batch had only taken him a cycle. He had been known to spend up to three times that keeping vigil over a brew, adjusting pressure and temperature by minute degrees according to signs only he would recognize. “What brings you by, Ricochet?”

“What, a bot can’t just swing around for a chat anymore?” Jazz said, leaning his head back as he crunched a goodie between his dentae. “What kinda world are we living in?”

“One a lot of people aren’t interested in anymore,” Ferrule said. He sat with his back straight, hand balled in the center of his lap. That was, Jazz had learned over time, how Ferrule relaxed. “Heavy traffic headed toward Staniz; lots of ships going without many coming back. Heard one story about someone waiting a whole decacycle just to get told the cargo bay was all out of room.” Which could have meant people were folding up to wait out the long voyages, or that a sorry upper-class bot had learned his private shuttle exceeded carry-on restrictions. Jazz was trusted with these stories because Ferrule knew he would not take them at face-value.

“That right?” Jazz asked as he let his head roll back. Another thing he would miss: all his contacts had the  _ best _ furniture. “Who’s got the shanix for offworlding right now?”

“Usual suspects,” Ferrule said, “plus a few more. Neutrals coming in from all over. Probably some of the others, too, just going by the numbers, but they’re not really flashing their badges on the way in.”

Jazz added that information to his folder of things to purge in the event of capture.

“What’s up with that? We watching the next exodus?” he asked. He did not bother to add the lilt of a half-joke; Ferrule would answer the same way regardless.

“Not those kinds of numbers,” he said. “No word on what set them off. Probably a rumor that stoked some old plans.”

“You’re not saying you’re having thoughts, are you? Didn’t come here for any goodbyes.” No chat with Ferrule was complete without a brazen lie or two.

Ferrule shook his head.

“No, no, I’m here. Not going anywhere. Petrex and I’ve got our differences, but it’s the only place for me.” Though his spinal strut stayed rigid, his fenders fluttered, more active than Prowl’s sensor panels and harder to follow.

Jazz went for another goodie.

“So, you know I’m a sucker for rumors.”

  
  


Stopping at the Central Petrex Enforcer Headquarters was not the most efficient use of Prowl’s time, but it was the only place he could think to go that would not spook Jazz into making a run for it while his tac comp worked through its backlog of calculations. Though it had been vorn since he had last come by, many of the bots at the station recognized him, which meant that after he was installed in the breakroom with a cube of energon, he was left alone with his thoughts.

Jazz had confessed to being a Decepticon. Not currently, and not under oath, but even as a potential diversion the implications consumed him. Prowl had run through every conversation they had shared between that moment and the attack, and nowhere could he identify a point at which he might have hinted at the root of his investigation. Either Jazz had made a lucky guess—which, to be fair, he had a penchant for, though even that now had to be viewed through a lens of suspicion—or he knew there existed evidence that pointed toward espionage.

An accusation from Red Alert was not an indictment, but neither was it a matter that would be brushed aside as paranoia; Red’s careful perception had saved countless Autobot lives in the past, and Prowl personally knew how low his chances getting out of Corcapsia would have been had it not been for the extra steps Red Alert had taken in establishing their escape route. When he had approached Prowl with his collection of evidence, minute details that seemed irrelevant in isolation, Prowl’s initial question had been for clarification.

“Which was your initial observation?” What had Prowl missed that could have tipped him off?

“His name,” Red Alert had said. “I stumbled across pre-war construction logs. Still searching for the truth, but I guarantee there is no Jazz of Staniz forged 3 rd cycle 274.”

Evidence, but not proof, and Prowl had been prepared to dig for every scrap he could find, regardless of what it revealed. An unprovoked confession tripped his tac comp enough to land him here, staring at a wall and looping through questions of  _ why _ with no satisfying answer.

“Pleasant cycle, Prowl.” His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his old captain—Prowl had forgotten his name—whose offered handshake was stiffer than it had been when Prowl was an enforcer under his command. “Apologies for the wait, we are dealing with a situation. What do the Autobots need?”

“Your security feeds,” Prowl said, standing with his cube still full and forgotten on the chair. “And your discretion.”

They installed him in the temporary office they kept for visiting Autobot personnel and left him to it. He started with a general sweep for any sign of Jazz but was unsurprised when his efforts came up fruitless: Jazz had been selected for this mission for his skill in avoiding detection. Next was working through those of Jazz’s contacts they had been able to verify and track down, though this too yielded nothing pertaining to the ongoing investigation. Though he was able to track the movements of a few of them, there was nothing that led to Jazz. If he had a few cycles to let his tac comp review the footage, he might have found the pattern, but Jazz could be all the way to Darkmount by then.

Assuming that was where he was headed. Assuming he was lying about only previously working with the Decepticons. Assuming that Jazz was responsible for the first information leak.

Prowl switched tracks, shutting down every feed he had open and starting from scratch. No record of Jazz’s movements, but he was not the only Autobot to have come through Petrex. It was a convenient stop for anyone on their way to Staniz, with its readily available supplies and formidable defense systems. It was also the last Autobot city on the edge of a neutral zone, with the others either on the front, like Tyger Pax and Protihex, or secured deep in Autobot territory, like Iacon. If an agent wanted to meet their handler outside the chaos of active combat, the stretch between here and Staniz was riddled with unmonitored pockets.

He started in the official records, tracking Autobot movements through the city as far back as when the route from Protihex to Tyger Pax had first been scouted. From there, the list could be pared down based on what they already knew about the perpetrator and those results run through surveillance programs while Prowl reviewed each individual’s file.

Piece by piece, he teased out the pattern.

  
  


Jazz tapped his foot, swaying his hips in time with his music as he dug through the filing cabinet. He pulled the whole stack of datapads forward, checking to see if there was a secret compartment at the back of the drawer. No luck yet, but with folks like this, it was just a matter of patience and diligence.

It was a cozy apartment, just slightly larger than Jazz’s place but with a view that carved out most of its owner’s salary. Decorations were sparse: almost everything inside served a function, from the berth with its limited range of recharge programs to the energon dispenser in the front room, designed to dispense a single standard ration. It was the kind of place that would have been depressing if it were meant to be lived in. Jazz had done it a favor by leaving the mess in his wake, scattered objects leaving an easy guide of the places he had already searched. The fact that nearly all of the apartment was in some state of disarray by now was a little concerning, but Jazz did not believe in disappointment. Something in here would give.

He pulled a random datapad and turned it over in his hands. Standard manufacture, no evidence of post-production modification. From his wrist compartment, he produced his favorite multitool and started to fiddle with it, unscrewing the back panel while listening for any clicks that would alert him to abort mission.

He heard nothing like that, but as the last screw popped out, he picked up another noise: footsteps, stopping just in front of the apartment door. Silence, and then the tell-tale  _ snikt _ of a cable unspooling.

Still holding the datapad, Jazz stepped into the front room with felinoid care and turned the only chair in the room so it faced the door. He climbed on sideways, legs draped over the arm, and discarded the back of the datapad so he could lean close to inspect its internals as the locking mechanism beeped and the door slid aside.

Prowl froze with one pede across the threshold. Jazz glanced at him, grinned, and returned to his work, bouncing a leg in time with his music to dispel the energy building in his lines, while Prowl glanced around the apartment

“Are you going to run?” he asked once he had completed whatever checks he had deemed necessary.

Jazz shrugged.

“Would you chase me?”

Prowl did not move. Jazz glanced at him a second time, his details hard to make out against the harsh backlight of the complex hallway.

“Not a trick question, Prowl.” He returned to the datapad, using his fingers now to gently pry out the battery.

He still saw at the edge of his vision the moment Prowl stepped into the room, letting the door close behind him.

“No,” he said. “It would be a waste of time.”

“A  _ waste _ ?” Jazz’s visor flashed back to Prowl, projecting his mock hurt. Prowl just canted his helm, optics locked on Jazz while his sensor panels fluttered with more thorough scans.

“I could catch you eventually, but it would require time and resources the Autobots cannot expend right now,” he said. “The potential damage you could cause were you to go free is similar to that which we would incur were key operatives removed to assist with your capture.”

“You don’t know what I know,” Jazz said. He popped the battery free and tossed it behind him, listening for the clatter before he started to poke at the pad’s more delicate components. “I’ve had a lot of private chats with Optimus when his guards thought he was alone in his quarters.  _ You’ve _ unofficially declassified things just for me.” Jazz had been trying not to think about the trust they had shared before. Even if he could prove he was innocent of this most recent crime, he would still have to contend with the secrets he  _ had _ kept from Prowl.

“Do you intend to go back to the Decepticons?” Prowl asked.

Straightforward, then. Jazz went for the pad’s storage drive.

“Does it matter what I say?” he asked.

Prowl considered it. Jazz successfully removed two screws before he realized the chip had been soldered in as well.

“No,” Prowl said.

Whatever. Jazz wedged the blunt end of the multitool under the drive and twisted, cracking it and freeing the loosed shards.

“Regardless of your answer, I do not believe you are a traitor to the Autobots,” Prowl went on. “Now can you stop testing me so we can focus on the matter of hand?”

Jazz shook his head.

“Not done yet,” he said. “Why?”

“What are you even—" Prowl had stepped forward to inspect the ruined device in Jazz’s hands but stopped when Jazz automatically flinched away. He had movement programs lined up to fling himself over the back of the chair and out the window he had come through, but to both of their benefits Prowl relented and stepped back. “The evidence we have connecting you to the attack is entirely circumstantial, inferences made in absence of a more likely suspect. I have found someone I believe more closely matches the profile we are looking for.”

“Who?”

Prowl narrowed his optics at Jazz.

“Maybe you could tell me,” he said. “You are in the process of destroying his property.”

Jazz looked down at the pad, mouth opening like he was just seeing it for the first time.

“Aw, slag, I do that? My bad. I get fiddly during interrogations.”

Prowl put a hand to his face.

“This isn’t— _ where _ did you get Verve’s address?”

“Mutual acquaintance.” Jazz dropped the datapad and leveraged himself up and over the back of the chair, landing on his pedes on the other side. “Told me a story about a surprise Autobot visit a little while back, slick guy back in town to say hi to his old enforcer buddies. Gave me directions.” City hall sanitation was one of several gigs Ferrule would pick up whenever an opportunity opened; the salary was not worth the work (fair wages would risk implying that Petrex officials were any less than perfectly tidy), but he always managed to pull something more valuable than credits out of it.

“Anything else?” Prowl asked.

“Yeah.” Jazz gestured to the window behind him. “Folks with their mics to the ground are splitting. Word is there’s been sightings of bots who don’t belong sneaking around places they shouldn’t. Some are saying the war’s on its way.”

Jazz saw Prowl flinch at that and did have a moment of sympathy for the bot. Most of the population had already gone through the grief of hearing that their home city had been subsumed into the conflict, but they yet remained among the lucky few who had not experienced it. The anxiety of knowing it could happen at any moment was the price they paid.

“Your turn,” Jazz said. “What’d official channels fish out for you?”

Prowl’s sensor panels twitched and he glanced away for a nanoklik; Jazz gasped.

“Prowl, you didn’t!”

“My loyalty is to the Autobots first,” Prowl said, locking himself into a posture that was likely meant to seem strong but instead came across as defensive. “Given the delicate nature of the situation, I could not risk adding additional factors by bringing Petrex’s enforcers into my investigation. They are aware that they rendered aid, but not the nature or cause for it.”

“I’ll take it,” Jazz said with a grin. He could remember back to their days in Security Services, when Prowl had been known as the bot unable to begin an informal meeting until proper handshake and briefing procedures had been satisfied. “So, what’d you get out of the enforcers?”

“Verve of Petrex, fourth division Autobot analyst, entered Petrex 6 th cycle 105, a decacycle prior to the attack. He performed routine checks on Petrex’s munitions factories and spent significant time in Petrex’s enforcer stations, where he was previously employed.”

Jazz tilted his helm as he leaned against the doorframe to the back room.

“That’s… huh.” He had expected more from Prowl.

“It is reported that Verve was there primarily to socialize with his former coworkers. However, only a quarter of his reported time off can be accounted for on security feeds, and from my personal observations, Verve had no friends.”

Jazz barked a laugh.

“ _ Harsh _ , Prowl.”

“A statement of fact,” Prowl retorted. His frame had relaxed again, sensor panels settling into a more natural position, though he made no move to collapse the space between them. “Verve applied for frame exception to transfer to pursuit.”

“And?” Jazz jabbed a thumb at himself. “I had frame exception for a little while, while I was working as a musician. Didn’t get shunned for it.” It had, in fact, been among the happiest periods of Jazz’s life, constantly among musicians and music lovers.

“In Staniz,” Prowl pointed out. “Petrex is far more conservative in that regard. Verve’s attempt to change his function was likely taken among his peers to mean that he considered himself above them; pursuit was a coveted department for the prestige awarded to high-profile captures. There was also a… social benefit to the position.”

Jazz smirked and took a step closer to Prowl, disguising it as passive interest in the contents of an overturned wastebasket.

“Not your scene?” he asked.

“No,” Prowl said. “Attending the post-shift outings would have meant sacrificing requisite recharge joors.” Rich, coming from a bot who had been known to work for cycles without break, but Jazz did not comment on that now.

“Okay,” Jazz said. “So, we’ve got a bot who started in the Petrex enforcers, didn’t like where he was and got alienated for it, then signed onto the Autobots—”

“He transferred to Security Services, first, under Sentinel,” Prowl corrected. “He transferred before I did.”

“Alright. Any hints when he could’ve gotten in contact with the Decepticons?”

“I assume it would have to have been after Optimus’ rise to the Primacy,” Prowl said. “I can’t imagine how a Decepticon agent could have slipped by Sentinel’s scrutiny.”

“I did.”

Prowl locked up again. Jazz froze, too, not risking edging any closer to the nervous ex-enforcer. He had assumed that information exchange to this degree meant they were on their way back to trusting each other, but maybe that detail was still too new. He felt a brush of disappointment but did not waste time feeding it.

“I was a Decepticon ‘fore I was an Autobot,” he said, because Prowl thrived off information. “Got recruited in Staniz after the Clampdown tanked the local music scene. Most of my friends went into shipbuilding, but I’d already been in that life once and knew I couldn’t do another round. Soundwave picked me out while I was busking.”

Prowl’s gaze was steady, the look he adopted when he was copying and analyzing data as it was coming to him. Jazz pushed down his instinct to break for the open window.

“I was assigned to spec ops, but they were calling it recon back then. Lots of rumors around about Sentinel’s plans, but no one really knew what the Functionists were packing, so Soundwave sent me into Kaon to find out.”

Prowl nodded. Already, his frame was relaxing again; bot did  _ not _ like having unanswered questions lying around. “Is that the point at which you changed your name?”

“My—no? When did that—aw, slag.” Jazz felt the energon drain from his face. “Is that what gave me away?”

“Red Alert found it,” Prowl said. “He opened a case and discovered further inconsistencies within your profile, but yes, that was the catalyst.”

The laugh came unbidden, harsh and a bit unkind, though only towards himself. Jazz had to lean against the chair to keep his balance. Prowl’s optics flared and he stepped forward, offering support, but Jazz waved him off.

“ _ Frag _ , mech, that’s—I didn’t change my name for the Decepticons. I picked it up to get into the  _ music scene _ ; was remaking myself and the old one had never really fit. I wasn’t—slag, I probably could’ve gotten away with it, couldn’t I?” He put a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle further laughter. He knew he had a reputation for being impulsive, but now he was wondering if it was better earned than he had realized.

“There was other evidence,” Prowl said, tone quiet with what Jazz realized was supposed to be reassurance.

This time, he did not refuse Prowl’s help when the laughter bubbled up again, even leaning into the warm grip on his elbow.

“Wow. If Prime ever forgives me for this one, you better make sure I’m in a different room when you tell him that part. Don’t think my ego could take it.”

“Optimus will forgive you,” Prowl said.

Jazz’s smile blunted at the edges.

“We’ll see,” he said. What he wouldn’t have given to have Optimus there right now. “But enough about me. For real. Where’s all the stuff pointing to this Verve bot?”

“Here,” Prowl said, releasing Jazz’s arm to retrieve a datapad. “This contains everything I was able to pull from his file and his movements through Petrex.” He finished unlocking it but hesitated in handing it over. “I’ve made backups of everything, so it will do you no good to destroy it. As a professional courtesy, I ask that you do not.”

Jazz grinned at Prowl as he plucked the datapad from his grip.

“I told you, I only get fiddly when I’m nervous.”

  
  


The sun was setting and Petrex was moving into the first shift of the night cycle. The main ‘centrics were packed with bots heading to and coming from work, while down below the pedestrian radials lit up with those who could afford off-hours. Given the momentum of the last several cycles, Prowl felt like he should be among the workers up above, moving into position for the next stage of the operation.

Instead, he was down here with Jazz, standing off to the side of a public square while trying to look unremarkable. Bots milled around in front of them, often in pairs or groups, so engrossed in their own lives they paid no attention to the loiterers drinking in the evening air. The few times someone did make optic contact with Prowl, they were quick to look away again, uninterested in drawing the attention of an enforcer.

It left him in an unfamiliar state of being. Downtime, some would have called it. With the tac comp’s endless queue of problems, he had thought himself immune to it, but now he had it on standby to conserve power and did not know what to do with all the space left in his processor. This was what some people looked forward to?

“Okay, what do you normally do to relax?” Jazz asked, who was doing a much better job with this. Leaned back against the wall, visor dimmed to a comfortable glow, he looked like just another living fixture of the city.

Prowl considered the question. Apparently, he considered it too thoroughly, because Jazz started to get twitchy.

“Strategy games? Math puzzles?” he suggested.

Prowl grimaced and shook his helm.

“Most are newforge play,” he said.

“I’ve got some helm-scratchers,” Jazz offered, but still Prowl refused.

“Thank you, but I don’t think I would enjoy that, either. If a problem takes me too long, I start to feel… deficient.” Perhaps that was too personal to have shared so readily. Prowl scrambled for something else. “I listen to music,” he said.

Jazz cocked his head as he grinned.

“Really? No way. You?” Prowl did not know what his expression did, but it caused Jazz to laugh. “No offense, mech. Just trying to understand how I didn’t know that about you.”

“I’m not very knowledgeable on the subject,” Prowl said. Already, he was wondering if he was out of his depth. Jazz had been a professional musician; he just had a short playlist he would turn to when fulfilling the less critical aspects of functioning, like refueling and maintenance.

“It’s all good. We can work with this.” Jazz had pushed himself from the wall and, when Prowl failed to follow, reached back to gently guide him forward. “Come on. This joor, the bands are just getting warmed up, but I know a couple spots we can hit.”

Prowl was not sure how it happened, but their hands ended up linked together as Jazz led them through the city, backtracking and looping so their presence on security feeds would look just like two bots enjoying a pleasant evening together. That the cover was not far from reality nagged at the back of Prowl’s processor, but he dismissed it as unimportant.

“Oh, hear that?” Jazz asked as they stopped again, this time before a squat building with warm yellow lights buzzing above its doors, which themselves rose far taller than either Jazz or Prowl. The windows revealed a bar rippling with activity, manual class frames so tightly packed it was impossible to see the performance they were turned to. Prowl perked his sensor panels and was just able to catch it, a lovely, haunting bass that caused his spinal strut to shiver.

“That’s Synco they’ve got up right now, which means we should be getting Treble on keyboard real soon,” Jazz said. “Never met a bot who could run a smoother swing.”

“You know him personally?” Prowl asked, checking against Jazz’s reports.

“Nah,” Jazz said. “Just bumped into each other a couple times, usually while I was tailing someone else.” He leaned back, head bobbing lightly in time with the bassline rolling out of the bar.

“If we’re trying to go unnoticed, though, perhaps we should proceed with caution,” Prowl said. He glanced to the crowded windows again. Jazz could find a way out of anything, but if something went wrong, Prowl would be trapped. Unless he pulled his old enforcer badge, a misdemeanor.

“We will,” Jazz said, and then he was pulling Prowl away from the front doors.

“Jazz?” Prowl asked, to which Jazz responded with a grin cast over his shoulder.

“We’re taking the VIP entrance,” he said.

This turned out to entail breaking into the adjoining building (a feat made significantly easier and less suspicious by the fact Jazz already had the security code; Prowl logged his questions for later) and taking the stairs to the fourth floor, which put them above the roof of the bar next door. The window at the end of the hall should have been sealed shut, per building code, but Jazz was able to pull it in, just wide enough for both of them to slip through and drop to the building below. Jazz went first and turned help Prowl down, catching his hand again as he did so.

The roof was dominated by an orange-tinted skylight, from which leaked the plunky notes of a keyboardist warming up. The remaining paneling was so narrow, even standing at the edge of it risked being seen by the bots below, so the pair settled themselves quickly, sitting with their backs against the barrier surrounding the roof. On the opposite side of the skylight, a trine of biplanes appeared to have had the same idea, but aside from responding to Jazz’s friendly wave paid them no mind.

“When I was first getting settled in your city, places like this were my sparkscanner,” Jazz said without preamble. “Not the lifecord they used to be, since all the lower level clubs got shut down, but still a good place to feel for the sparkpulse of the city.”

Prowl leaned his helm back and let his visual feed dim to 50% capacity. With his sensor panels pressed to a part of the building, he could feel the music as much as hear it as it drifted up to them. The keyboardist had found his step and moved in line with the bass, playing a series of simple chords to follow the established rolling melody. The two musicians were playing right now: no competition yet, crafting harmonies that were easy to follow and repeat. Nothing spectacular, but nice.

“Are these establishments more comfortable for you than, say, a union meeting, since you used to be a musician?” he asked. It had occurred to him that even if potential lies were taken at face value, he knew little of Jazz’s past. For reasons not tied exclusively to his investigation, this struck him as deeply in need of correcting.

Jazz laughed, a sound that was somehow more appealing the more Prowl heard it.

“First of all, you think there’s a single union in this town that wouldn’t peg me for a cop and throw me out, folks might start mistaking you for an optimist.” Jazz shook his head, grin still on. “But otherwise, sure. I found myself in places like this. Creating something, connecting with bots, it’s all I ever wanted to do. Kinda figures that I found my way back here, even with a war on.” His smile turned slanted as he leaned forward. “But maybe I’m being optimistic now. Before this it was the revolution and the Clampdown, when everything was getting screwed sideways. Maybe it’s just easier to enjoy the moment when the moment lasts longer than a cycle.”

“I… think I can relate,” Prowl said, his surprise mirrored in the way Jazz glanced at him. “In my youth, I loved being an enforcer. I was maintaining a system that guaranteed every Cybertronian the opportunity to contribute to the functioning of the planet. When I realized the reality was not so straightforward, I felt like I lost a part of me. It turned out that the story I had been told about myself was a tool used against the people I thought I was protecting; once I saw it for what it was, I could never find fulfillment in my task.”

He had expressed such thoughts in fragments before, peppered in conversations between Jazz, Optimus, and on one occasion Jetfire, but this was the first time he had been able to coalesce them into a cohesive idea. Again, he wondered if this was oversharing, and found no evidence either way in Jazz’s gentle stare.

“So, you joined Security Services to try to make a difference from the inside,” Jazz said. The slight crackle of his vocalizer matched perfectly with the blunted sound of the band. “You know, for what it’s worth, I appreciated what you were trying to do.”

“You knew?” He had thought his moves were subtle, just persuasive enough to change Sentinel’s track without alerting anyone to his intentions. There was a growing queue of problems to reanalyze once he had his tac comp back, all of it related to his history with Jazz.

“Yup,” Jazz said. “Talked to Soundwave about recruiting you, even, but never had a good in. You’re a hard mech to get to know, Prowl.”

And there was that grin back; Jazz was joking with him. Prowl felt his sensor panels flutter, vibrating against the barrier.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said. “I would have reported you. Though I disagreed with Sentinel’s manner, the Decepticons were the antithesis to everything I believed.”

“Slag, Prowl, just say you didn’t like the poetry,” Jazz laughed. “But yeah. I get it. I do. It’s easier now, playing for a Prime I trust. Optimus is a rare one.”

Prowl nodded. The music was picking up tempo, the keyboard taking over the melody to run amok in a series of arpeggios as the bass dutifully followed along. He could see why this performer would appeal to Jazz.

“It’s a high probability that Optimus will pardon you,” he said. “If the evidence holds up and you repeat the story you have told me, there might be no need for an interrogation.” Red Alert would fight for it, but even he had to acquiesce to the Prime. And everyone could be convinced that this was a less than ideal place in the war to lose one of their best operatives.

Jazz, however, did not seem reassured by this idea. His smiled dropped and he turned his gaze up to the sky which now bore just a sliver of sunlight, his plating shuffling. Prowl felt the ghost of the tac comp pinging him that this behavior was highly irregular.

“Jazz?” he said. “Do you not want Optimus’ forgiveness?”

“What? No, you kidding?” Jazz’s bafflement was enough to break his staring contest with the rising moon. “Not have to give up the last few vorns of my life? That’d be frelling great..”

“But you hesitate at the thought of involving him.”

“I—Look. It’s not like I’m  _ ashamed _ of the things I’ve done. The old gov left me without options and the Decepticons gave me something to do about it. And then I got to know Optimus and realized I liked what he was about, so I made this permanent. I’ve always been trying to do what’s right, and he gets that; he’s a good bot. It’s just…”

Jazz fell quiet again, giving Prowl a moment to parse his words. It took a few more nanokliks than it normally would have, but even without the tac comp’s precision, he knew his conclusion was an astonishingly low probability. And yet, in the context of everything Jazz had told him and what he had seen, it was the only one that made sense.

“Optimus already knows.”

The rest of the world seemed to retreat. Prowl could still feel the music thrumming through his frame, but its presence was at the back of his processor. Jazz took the fore, the way he froze in place halfway to a smile. He tensed, like a spring preparing to snap, and Prowl desperately catalogued possible escape routes (every direction).

But then with a sigh, Jazz relented, slumping back against the barrier so their shoulders brushed.

“He’s a good bot,” he repeated.

Prowl tried to keep his stare level, but it was hard with Jazz so close.

“I can help you if you tell me the truth,” Prowl said, “and I am going to find it regardless.”

“That a threat?” Jazz asked, his visor meeting Prowl’s optics in a challenge.

“No,” Prowl said. He did not back down.

Jazz sighed again and rocked his helm so he was looking back up at the sky.

“When Sentinel died and Optimus took over, I figured it’d be more of the same,” he said. “He was more approachable than Sentinel had been, which was great for me and my job; could go in with some smuggled high grade and come out with a new tactic or interfaction conflict to exploit. But the more we talked, the more I realized he was on to something. The Decepticons were angry. They couldn’t fix what was broken, so they just wanted to tear everything down. But Optimus wanted to build. He didn’t know the first thing about law or policy, but he has a way with bots. Same as Megatron, I guess, but different.”

“And that is what convinced you to change sides,” Prowl concluded, but Jazz shook his head.

“Nah, not exactly,” he said. “I was put on call to terminate, if needed.”

Prowl’s processor flared with warnings, but he carefully dismissed them, nodding slowly for Jazz to go on.

“Plan never came to fruition, but the Decepticons were in a tight spot and needed a quick out at the ready. The orders came in as a footnote on my usual pickup, and I realized I couldn’t do it. Optimus has got this vision for what Cybertron could be one day, and I didn’t have it in me to take that away from everyone else.” He shrugged, as though it were no big deal. “It’s not really that I chose to switch sides as I couldn’t follow my orders. So, I told Optimus what was up, and he helped me defect.”

“And he never told his security team that he’d been sharing drinks with a potential assassin.” It was, of course, just like Optimus, but Prowl groaned, nonetheless. Were it not for the bot’s sheer good luck (a factor Prowl gone to great pains to explain mathematically), this war would have been lost within the first decade.

“Hey,” Jazz said, and the tone of his voice caught Prowl’s attention. He looked over and found that Jazz was leaning closer, conspiratorially. “He’s got good bots looking out for him. Including me. That’s why I can’t go back to Iacon until we’ve plugged the leak.”

Prowl was slower to connect threads without his tac comp, but still able.

“He can’t publicly pardon you without revealing his own role in your deceit and defection,” he said, “thereby implicating himself in harboring a Decepticon spy.”

“Morale would tank and folks like your old buds in Petrex might lose their faith,” Jazz said. “And even if we warned him against it, he would still push for it, since it’s the ‘right thing’ or whatever slag. So, we’ve got to take care of this before it reaches his audials.”

Prowl rolled it over in his processor. In a perfect world, the most logical course of action would be to return to Iacon and present the evidence that Jazz was innocent of this most recent crime. However, Jazz was right: this was reality, where people did not always react logically. Though it was not guaranteed Optimus would refuse their advice, the probability was too high to risk while there were other options.

“If he had a decent team of advisors, he wouldn’t end up in situations like this,” he grumbled. The bots who currently held that role were the last holdovers from Sentinel’s reign, barely trusted nowadays with requisitions. The more he thought about it, the less Prowl was surprised Optimus had found refuge with a former ‘Con.

“Let’s get ourselves back to Iacon and maybe we can start to work on that,” Jazz said.

Their optics met: Prowl nodded; Jazz grinned. Then their attention turned forward as they settled back together, listening to music of a different world while waiting for the night to fall.

  
  


Hacking into the enforcer headquarters took longer than Jazz would have liked, but these were not codes that could be picked up off any corner. Prowl watched their surroundings, panels flicking in response to any sound, even the subtle  _ click _ of Jazz’s lockpicking rig. He was as certain as he could be that no one would come through this way, but with new personnel and changing protocol, they would both have to be on guard the whole time.

Luckily, Jazz was a maestro in suspicion and jumpiness.

He got the door open a crack, just wide enough to send in the blackout bug, a small drone programmed to target security cameras. A last resort tool that would be obvious on rewatch of the security feeds, it was the only way for them to get in and for Prowl to lead them to the employee breakroom on the ground floor, the last place Verve had appeared on camera before his abrupt disappearance.

In the video, Verve, after spending nearly a joor chatting with the bots coming through on their way to the energon dispenser, got up and disposed of his old cube, then exited through the rear door, which Prowl and Jazz now stood just to the side of. Walking normally, he should have reappeared on the camera on the left end of the hall, but he never did. Jazz would have chalked it up to hacking, but Prowl’s discovery of a shadow on the periphery of one camera further down suggested a more straightforward approach.

Now, Prowl and Jazz had themselves squished into that first blindspot, Prowl trying to be aware of everything except Jazz’s plating pressed against his own while Jazz searched for their path between the cameras. They kept their movements slow and methodical, never rushing unless they heard someone approaching. This was the most coveted off-shift, usually saved for those who had connections in admin. The ones who were left tended to be more reserved and most stuck to their workstations, giving Prowl and Jazz mostly empty corridors to work with as they made their way deeper into the headquarters.

Jazz knew they had reached a landmark when they found themselves at a dead end, two floors down from where they had started. The door at the end of the corridor was closed, though there was light on the other side. There were a few doors branching off into storage and maintenance areas but getting within arm’s length of any of them would have put Jazz in view of a camera. He felt Prowl’s optics on him as he inspected the narrow blindspot they had wedged themselves into.

Jazz shot him a grin, aiming for cocksure. Delightfully, Prowl’s sensor panels fluttered, though Jazz was unfortunately distracted from them by the sound they made trembling against the wall. The long echo of a cavity on the other side.

Projecting his movements as he maneuvered in their tight space, he turned around and started to fiddle with the panel. Prowl caught on to his intentions and helped where he could, though he could not turn for risk of dipping his sensor panels into a camera’s sightline. With minimal shuffling, though, they found the trick to pry it up, and then Jazz was slipping inside, hesitating just long enough to be sure there was no one standing immediately past the threshold with a gun in their hand.

His luck held up, though, and the space he stepped into was empty. He had to stoop just to fit in it and turning back would undoubtedly prove a challenge. but he had built his reputation crawling through spots much tighter than this.

Prowl, on the other hand, did not have that experience, and Jazz heard him huff with annoyance as he followed inside.

“What is this, a maintenance shaft?” Jazz asked, following the exposed and dangling cables that seemed to sprout from every surface. He was relying on his visor to see; once Prowl had replaced the wall panel, they had been pitched into darkness, interrupted only occasionally by fluorescent markers in the walls.

“Unlikely,” Prowl said. “It’s not included in the blueprints, and there would be no reason to keep such a structure secret.”

Once they were past the initial jungle of cables, the tunnel became smooth, if patchy. Missing panels revealed the inner structures that kept the space upright underneath the heavy layers above them (although the further they went, the more certain Jazz became they were no longer underneath the station) and sounds of live electronics followed them as they moved. Prowl had his sensor panels perpendicular to his back to keep from knocking into the walls, which meant Jazz did not have as much warning as he would have liked when they reached the end.

“We’re coming up on something,” Prowl whispered right as Jazz’s visual feed picked up the wall panel. “Heavy electromagnetic interference.”

“Anything alive?” Jazz asked. He tapped the panel, earning the same hollow  _ ding _ he had gotten on the other side.

“Doubtful,” Prowl said. “There could be someone linked into the system, though, so proceed with caution.”

Not that Jazz had been planning anything else, but he nodded, feeling around the edge of the panel for the trick that had gotten them through the first one. Thoughts that had been swirling in his processor for a while now pushed to the fore, and he had to divide his attention between steadying his hands and his voice.

“You should stay here,” he said. “We don’t know what’s on the other side of this, and if it turns out to all be legit, we don’t need you getting in trouble with your old precinct.”

“My—what?”

Jazz stole a glance at Prowl. Hunched over and plating pulled in tight, he already looked uncomfortable, but there was a slant to his expression that suggested it was more than physical.

“I mean, I know you’re not their biggest fan, but you’ve still got a thing with them, right?” Jazz asked, turning back to the panel.

“There is some… tactical advantage to maintaining my connections,” Prowl said. “But their loyalty first is to the Prime, and Optimus is more than capable of smoothing over relations if we take this too far. My larger strategic concern is returning you to Iacon alive. Chances of success increase dramatically if we stay together.”

Jazz felt his spark warm and he hastened his efforts, slipping only once before he popped the panel out of its frame.

It was a small room they stepped into, almost a storage closet and as dark except for the bank of computer screens on the far wall, filling the corners with their steady cyan light. There was a door to Jazz’s left, sealed, and a security camera to his right, offline according to his sensors. The computer (it appeared to be a single system, despite the dozen or so screens) was in the process of shutting down.

“Geographically speaking, where would you pin us?” Jazz asked as he stepped up to the expansive console. Prowl was at his side, examining the device but letting Jazz handle manipulation.

“Leaving central Petrex,” Prowl said. “In proximity of Con30, the border highway to midtown.”

“The station extends that far?” Jazz asked.

“No,” Prowl said, though he kept glancing around like he was uncertain. “I had heard rumors that certain institutions were linked together by submetallic networks, but never had reason to investigate further. I suppose this could be a part of one.”

Jazz halted shutdown and loaded the terminal’s directory. A cursory search revealed high storage capabilities and limited network connectivity, currently disabled. Likely a holding spot for old data where it would not be slowing down vital systems without the finality of deleting it entirely. The contents of the files would have put mileage toward figuring out what had brought Verve this way but trying to open any of them delivered a prompt for credentials.

“Let me,” Prowl said after Jazz was refused access for a third time. His hands hovered over Jazz’s on the keyboard, but Jazz hesitated to move. Prowl’s sensor panels flapped. “I still have access to enforcer systems. If this is something Petrex enforcers are involved in, I should be able to get in, in which case it is even more important we know what is going on.”

Jazz relented, stepping aside. It felt like a long wait as Prowl input his password, most of which Jazz spent watching Prowl’s hands as they fluttered across the keyboard. His attention was only brought back up by the computer opening a new screen, a viewing program, and he was only distracted briefly by the curse he heard Prowl whisper.

“These are Petrex’s defenses,” he said. “This, here,” he pointed to the screen, “it’s security rotation from 3 rd cycle 037. And this one,” he opened a random file from the list, “is from 8 th cycle 243.”

“Just schedules, or…?” Jazz knew he need not have bothered asking, though, by the way Prowl started to comb through the list more frantically.

“Invoice for bullets from Tarn. Clampdown regulations from Sentinel.” Prowl named the contents as he opened them, barely giving himself time to review one before he was moving on to the next. “The original proposal for the anti-air defense shield. What is all this  _ doing _ here, unsecured?”

He froze, fans billowing hot air. With careful movements, Jazz stepped back into the space before the console, inspecting the files Prowl had opened.

“Do you recognize the architecture?” he asked. Prowl’s wings flicked in acknowledgement, but it still took him several nanokliks to answer.

“Of course,” he said. “It’s the bureaucratic standard for—”

“Not the computer, the room,” Jazz said, gesturing around them with his free hand. “You said we’re near Con30. Any specific building?”

“I don’t know,” Prowl said, optics traveling around the room without seeing it.

“Could we be in the foundations of the highway?”

Prowl focused on Jazz. He shrugged.

“From what I heard, the ‘centrics were walls before they were roads. After apartheid, maybe they turned obsolete structures into storage for obsolete intel.” He pointed to one date embedded in a header. “That’s from before you were constructed, isn’t it? It’s all out-of-date.”

“It’s  _ data _ ,” Prowl snapped. “What isn’t included can be inferred.” But he was not disagreeing with Jazz’s main point, which Jazz knew was the most he could hope for when Prowl was in this state.

He glanced back through the files. Even amongst the few they had accessed, there were hints toward larger vulnerabilities that, with enough time and resources, could be widened into something much more destructive. Decepticons currently had access to plenty of both.

“Petrex’s leadership needs to know about this,” Prowl said, taking over again to start closing files and shutting down programs. “Even if Verve somehow isn’t involved in this, a security breach of this magnitude could have the city under Decepticon control within a cycle.”

“And then Staniz would be surrounded,” Jazz filled in. “They’d have the spaceport.”

“And Petrex’s munitions and cold construction facilities.” Prowl’s sensor panels were static as he finished with the computer, optics locked to it as it turned off. “We need to inform the captain immediately, get a city-wide search going while raising the defenses for potential imminent invasion. Given that the terminal was accessed recently, there might still be time to—”

Jazz had hung back, waiting for the moment Prowl noticed and interrupted himself to turn taround.

“Well?”

Jazz smiled, rueful, as he started to inch back toward the closed door.

“Sorry, Prowl,” he said, “but I think this is the part where I give you the slip.”

“What?” Prowl’s optics flared and he straightened, secret passageway momentarily forgotten.

“No matter what angle the Decepticons come from, if they show up, the lower level’s gonna get hit hard,” Jazz said. “I’ve got connections down there. Folks with a lot of life left to live who didn’t get a say in whether we had a war.” He thought of Rotary and Roundabout crowded together at Winch’s table, of Ferrule keeping a tub of solvent just at the point of boiling. “If I go now and get the word out, there might be time to get them out of the way. And hey, maybe I can even pick up Verve’s trail while I’m out. I’m good at multitasking.” His grin cracked a bit brighter, though he could only hope Prowl could see it as more monitors shut off and the room dimmed to near blackness.

He bit his lip and tried not to overthink, especially not about what he was asking for. Prowl hesitated.

“Your friends,” he said. “Will they trust the enforcer evac teams, should it come to that?”

“No,” Jazz said. “But I trust you. If you decide that’s what needs to happen, I’ll find ‘em a way out.” He knew routes through this city even the most veteran pursuit vehicle had never considered.

Prowl nodded and stood at attention, as though addressing an officer.

“Alright,” he said. “By Primus’ light.”

There was no time for it. But Jazz stepped forward anyway, grasping Prowl’s hand so the joints of their fingers ground together.

“Catch ya on the flipside,” he promised.

Neither waited to watch the other leave. They spun and took off at the same time, Prowl up the tunnel and Jazz toward the door, both in a mad dash back up to the city.

Verve was captured on Con184, running from the gate at 62.6R where a fluke of city planning meant there was regularly a space of 10 kliks between the departure of one guard rotation and the arrival of the next. Prowl had been in time to warn the enforcers of the potential escapee and, with the city on heightened alert, Verve’s window to leave had closed shut.

“I get why they rejected him for pursuit,” Jazz said later as he reclined on Prowl’s desk in Iacon, optics roving across the window, taking in old familiar sights. “Running’s not so much his strong suit.”

“No,” Prowl said, “which is why he used your case as a distraction, I would guess. He was buying himself time.”

“Just didn’t realize he’d accidentally hit so close to the bullseye,” Jazz said. He grinned down at Prowl, though it was missed as the other bot continued to review the pile of datapads before him. “Knew an  _ innocent _ bot would go straight back to Iacon to get the mess sorted.”

“Or even half innocent,” Prowl said, still without looking up. “Optimus is on his way from Tyger Pax, by the way. The Decepticon offensive has been pushed back for the time being. I am sure he will want to see you when he arrives.”

Jazz froze.

“Is someone gonna tell him—”

“I’ve scheduled a meeting with him ahead of his briefing with Red Alert,” Prowl said. “I will apprise him of the situation. With a more likely suspect in custody and your alibi already constructed, the probability is good we will be able to turn Red Alert’s attention to more pressing matters.”

And he relaxed again.

“So, I’m good?”

“I believe so.”

Prowl was frowning at his datapad, sensor panels stiff in thought. Jazz leaned closer so their helms almost bumped, catching Prowl’s attention.

“Something eatin’ ya?”

Prowl huffed and set down the datapad.

“One part of the puzzle remains elusive to me,” he said, “but I was hoping to find the solution on my own.”

“Aw, c’mon, Prowl,” Jazz said, bumping him now for real. “Weren’t you the one that said we’re a good team? Lemme help.”

Prowl’s panels twitched and he looked away, though he did not move out of Jazz’s space.

“I don’t understand why you told me the truth,” Prowl said. “It worked to focus me on the other facets of the case, but there were ways you could have done that without implicating yourself at all. Simply looking into the available evidence would have been enough for you to craft your alibi. Why say anything?”

Jazz shrugged as he leaned back, his gaze moving up to the ceiling. Prowl chanced a glance over, optics drawn to the way the move exposed Jazz’s neck cables.

“Been trying to figure that one out myself, actually,” he said. “Felt right in the moment.”

“Yes, but what was the motivation behind it?” Prowl pushed. “Your instincts tend toward a specific goal.” He was not expecting Jazz to laugh.

“Yeah, the ones I bother to mention in my reports,” he said as he shook his head, crossing one pede over the other. “You have any idea how much impulsive slag I keep out just to make the things legible?”

Prowl’s sensor panels arched.

“Your reports should—”

“I know,” Jazz said, waving him off. “I put in all the relevant stuff. I swear.” He tilted his helm then. Prowl was sure he was listening to music and was faintly curious what it was, though he did not want to offer Jazz a free distraction from what seemed to be a difficult conversation. “If I had to guess, I probably told you because I wanted to.”

That was not the answer Prowl had been expecting. He twisted his chair so he was facing Jazz fully, but when he tried to think of a response, nothing came to him, and Jazz was no longer meeting his optics.

“You’re spec ops; you know what it’s like to have secrets no one else can know about,” Jazz said. “I had Optimus, but he was part of it. Maybe I just wanted to have someone to trust who wasn’t directly involved.”

“I see,” Prowl said. “Does Optimus have someone like that?”

Jazz grinned.

“Not supposed to talk about that,” he said. “Conflict of interests and all.”

Poor Red Alert. How did he manage to give any thought to the Decepticons when there were so many secrets being held within his own faction? Prowl pushed the officer out of his processor, though, realizing that he had allowed himself to start getting distracted.

“Well, if you have further critical information regarding Autobot security, I am always here to listen,” he said with a nod.

Jazz smiled at him.

“That right?”

“Yes,” Prowl said, though immediately upon hearing himself realized how insufficient an answer it was. He knew what he was trying to say, and he had a suspicion of what Jazz was really asking, but working out the intricacies of a conversation was a far different task from analyzing the details of a case. He strung a few sentences together in his processor, all of which fell flat; unable to come up with words to convey his meaning, he instead reached up to clasp Jazz’s hand in a mimicry of the spy’s parting gesture.

He had little experience with this, gestures of physical support and affirmation. When Jazz twisted their hands so their fingers laced together, though, he felt some hope that he might figure it out.


End file.
